Mister Postman Look and See, Is There a Letter, a Letter for Me....

As is true of most of you, I have a regular mailman. He borders on being obsessive-compulsive, which I love.

Now by that, I don't mean he washes his hands before he delivers my mail. I mean he has NEVER given me someone else's mail. Ever.

When we have a package, he rubber bands the rest of my mail and puts it all by my front door if we aren't home.  The banded mail is in order of size, so when you pick it up it doesn't slip out of your hands.

He comes about the same time every day, varying some when the mail is heavy with all the junk mail you get at certain times of the month.

That is how we know when there is a substitute when our regular mailman, (who from henceforth shall be referred to as Donnie, because a: "Donnie" is easier to type than "our regular  mailman", and b: that's his name) the substitute (who from henceforth shall be referred to as Sub) is always way early.

Last Friday, Sub came way early and caused Husband to have to drive 14 miles or so to the post office because we had something that had to  be mailed that day, and Sub came before he got it out to the mailbox.

First of all, I can't believe that the Federal Government gives their employees vacation time. I mean, shouldn't that be, like, illegal or something? Isn't our mailman routine important?

An example of why Donnie should never have a vacation day: after the mail route was run Friday, all was chaos on my road and the surrounding roads because people went to their mailboxes (early) and found  strange things.

Now I don't mean like a sheriff's badge and a candy bar, Sub ain't whacko, I don't reckon. Just lead footed.

Take for instance what happened to the people who live far down the mountain directly behind us. I call them New Adults because they are around Daughter's age and have built a new house and are practicing on how to be grown up. As they should be doing.

But, bless their hearts, they had three pieces of mail in their box that belonged to other people. They were out trying to deliver this mail themselves, concerned that it had not been given to the right person. They knocked on my door because they know Daughter and had high hopes I could tell them where a person lived. I had never heard of this particular person, and told them the correct thing to do was to write in angry red letters, "Not at this address, Bozo, and neither are the other three pieces of mail you stuck in my box." and stick it back in their mailbox for pick up the next day.

Sub comes flying down the road, like he/she is trying to win a Speedy Gonzales contest (I think I even heard "Ariba! A'dele! A'dele" once), dashing around, poking mail, willy-nilly into whatever mailbox is handy.

Or maybe Sub thinks, "Aw, these poor folks didn't get no mail. Wait! I know! I'll give them this one, and this one!"

Sub must go back to the post office panting for breath from the vast distance covered, and all the poking hither and yon.

So, I propose no vacation time for mailmen. That would save all the money the post office has been whining about.

And Donnie would be the savior of our mail world.

Oh, and if Donnie is sick? Just don't deliver our mail that day. Please. I beg of  you.

Fishing? Pah! He can fish when he's sixty-five.